


Oeuvre

by silverr



Category: Arslan Senki (Heroic Legend of Arslan)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-11-06
Updated: 2004-11-06
Packaged: 2017-10-05 08:33:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/39764
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverr/pseuds/silverr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Narsus paints: sometimes, an artist's greatest creation is himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oeuvre

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: _Heroic Legend of Arslan_ is copyright Yoshiki Tanaka, KKS, and CPM. No disrespect is intended by this non-profit work of fan fiction. The author and the posters have no intent to infringe any intellectual property rights held by the owners of existing copyrights in Arslan or its derivative works.
> 
> Note that this story is based on the 1991 anime adaptation of the novels/manga.

.

.

Being an artist is, as the cliché goes, both a blessing and a curse. The ability to see things few others see, the honor of being chosen as a tool so that Beauty and Truth can enter existence; for this honor we acknowledge that Art is all, one's self nothing, in order that we might hold a mirror to reality. Too often, though, the artist becomes a canvas as well, creating whatever self suits the decor. What does Narsus see, when he holds a mirror up to himself?

I ask myself this, as I have a thousand times before in the security of my private room, while doing what I do every morning just before dawn: feeding my night's work to the fire. Every scrap of paper, every sketch, every watercolor, every canvas from the night before. When am I most truly Narsus? In the fevered hours when the images themselves seem to wield the brush? Or when I sit here watching dark feathers of ash float up the chimney, beaded with sparks? Can I call myself an artist, truly, if each morning I destroy my best work?

Then I notice that both the outer edges and the center catch fire first, and toy with the possibilities of this image as a metaphor.

This morning I have one last work to sacrifice. I painted life-size, as if I expected him to descend to me when I was done. Were that possible, though, this canvas would do it. The brush and knife caressed him in my stead, colored him with longing as well as pigment. I communicated exactly what I see when I look at him, the coiled, virile power that makes me ache.

It will never fit in my fireplace - and even if it did, these oils never burn cleanly, leaving an odorous smoke I've grown ashamed of explaining. I pick up a knife, then, press the point in, pushing against the resistance until the blade sighs in, tearing the flesh, and then I bear down, pull, and repeat. Soon the parallel wounds on the canvas cage him like the well-behaved animal I see him as. As he is.

Who do I hate more? Myself for loving so unwisely? Or should I hate him for existing at all, making my life a giddy torment every time he laughs or runs a careless hand through his hair? The way he looks in formal attire when he has his serious face on? I could go on and on… The way he shifts impatiently in his chair when he is bored with endless diplomatic nonsense and _fol-de-rol _(his word, of course) - and that he is intelligent enough to recognize the importance of that for which he has no tolerance. Does he tolerate me? He seems to balk, sometimes, at acknowledging that I have any value. To anyone.

I embrace the frame of the mutilated canvas until it cracks.

Every time we quarrel, I play the same scenario in my head afterwards - for as I said, artists are often actors as well. He follows me into my room, unwilling to leave the fight at the door. He complains about my layers, my deceptions… those words aren't important, only what he says at the end. I always imagine him saying, "When, Narsus? When? When will I ever see the real you?"

And in my fantasy, I let my clothes slip from me. "Now," I say. "Now are you satisfied? Here I am, without pretense. This is my Truth." And then he…

Such a coward I am.

I take what I've destroyed and pack the pieces into a saddlebag. Later today I will ride out, and cast them into the flooded mine shaft I use for such clandestine interments.

I take a fresh canvas from the rack, and in the dawn paint a pretty scene to show them, a lifeless landscape where everything is peaceful, and simple, and perfect.

.

.

_\- finis -_

_._

_._

Note: Although in my head I know who I meant as the object of Narsus's longing, it was pointed out to me recently that there could be more than one interpretation. This pleases me.

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first draft 3 July 2004; first post 6 Nov 2004; rev 13 May 2011 to add end note


End file.
